I searched for my lover, wandering through many hearts and deserts
I, the lover, my heart is a lover, my soul, I miss it
I couldn’t find her, the angel, my beloved
I sought my beloved, soaring to the heavens
I searched for Shirin and Layli, the princess, my soul’s beloved
My heart searching, eagerly seeking, yearning for the tale
I was stricken like separation, O beautiful parrot
I became enchanted, a lover, longing, I miss it
That ghazal, the parrot’s melody, took my soul to the sky
A pure heart, I became a lover, my heart longs, I miss it
—
Tursunov Abdulla Bakhrom o’g’li was born on September 18,2005, in the Nurobod district of the Samarkand region. He is currently first course in the Karshi university of history faculty.
a Gothic French princess on a hill overlooking the Sunset Strip a white stone beauty with a casual toss of gray head of slate roofing earthquake proof, turreted the castle still stands almost a hundred years of tread and wear parties, scandals, affairs of musicians and actors of writers making history.
They came under cover of darkness entered silently through the garage, no need for anyone to spot them no bright-lit lobby their shame, their value in the critical eyes of a culture where privacy not guaranteed but at the castle they could mourn, drink, create inspired and protected by the knowing kindly staff.
A glamorous shabby-chic version of the Loire Valley’s Chateau d’Amboise opened as apartments on the teeter edge of the stock market crash cheap rooms with cachet.
The movie studios funded Chateau suites for cheats to preserve their stars’ gleam the new owner made it safe for Hollywood royalty the hunchback manager the in-house phone operator the Garage Boys valets and maids always silent on the misfits, iconoclasts, outcasts, deviants, gays after the drunken fights trashed rooms, broken hearts the news had no clue.
The New York writers came uncomfortable in LA at home in the Chateau Hollywood-on-the-Hudson and they wrote scripts Rebel without a Cause, Sunset Boulevard, Music Man, Ben-Hur articles by Dominick Dunne on the infamous O.J. trial and so much more.
Run by eccentrics for eccentrics the castle fell to careless hands holding companies, banks threatened foreclosure the downslide of the aging belle at the seedy top of the hill shag rugs patched with tape peeling paint in shreds, must furnishings broken fixtures shabby-genteel, a place outside of time.
The new owner updated an elegant conversion with old-world charm a historic cultural monument where hijinks could continue: Jim Morrison fell off the roof a lyricist shot himself John Belushi overdosed the hideout hit the papers the Chateau an open secret of legendary, fashionable funk.
A new era, a new owner New York nightclub magnate full restoration upgrade to a chic upscale loftiness a buzzy bar scene, swanky showbiz party exclusives splashy bashes for the stars their premieres and awards.
So now the old girl looks down a long nose from her perch on the hill over the new Hollywood still classic, still historic with a modern LA brand.
The Chelsea (1884-present)
“You’ve got a great future behind you.” —old billboard in Times Square
New York’s most illustrious third-rate hotel the place Leonard Cohen made love to an unforgiving Janis Joplin and Thomas Wolfe wrote You Can’t Go Home Again and Arthur C. Clarke 2001: A Space Odyssey Arthur Miller the play on his iconic ex-wife Bob Dylan the lyrics for Blonde on Blonde and Dylan Thomas drank until he died young.
The largest, longest lasting creative community in the world designed as a haven for artists in the old theater district a cooperative building twelve stories of red brick in Queen Anne Revival style with wrought iron balconies a homey atmosphere in-room fireplaces a rooftop terrace a basement kitchen with dumbwaiters private dining rooms and a public café.
Attracting a cross-section of all social classes the rent affordable the rooms soundproofed for musicians and writers north-facing windows in studios for painters short-term or long-term a friendly residence an experiment in living in harmony with others.
By 1905 the co-op failing financially forcing subdivision from 125 rooms to 300 smaller spaces then bankruptcy after the Depression and Hungarian émigrés purchased and protected the hotel and the artists for 75 more years.
The theater district gone meant a downhill slide a rundown neighborhood seedy offices, tawdry bars and gradual hotel decay clanging heating pipes shabby rooms, dirty rugs with further subdivisions to 400 dingy rooms still popular, still housing knowns and unknowns long-distance truckers pensioners, burlesque dancers novelists, crackpots, drunks.
A miniature Ellis Island of the odd and avant-garde through the ’40s and ’50s the bohemians, the beatniks Kerouac and Ginsberg and the drug-fueled ’60s Christo and Warhol Pop artists, rock bands Jefferson Airplane, Janis slugging Southern Comfort Alice Cooper with a python wrapped around his neck.
Marijuana smoke wafting tattered halls, tattered tenants paying overdue rent in art displayed on lobby walls and hiding from hustlers pushers, hookers, pimps holdups, gunfire, junkies room fires, overdoses, leaps from the roof or out windows.
A city no longer doable for artists, the young or old the hotel sold, closed down the power of the creative community forgotten as history made way for the fortunate few rooftop gardens torn up the wall art torn down rooms gutted and enlarged into 155 elite suites a lobby full of new art a lobby bar full of chic.
In the city of ashes the city of gold, the Chelsea on the Register of Historic Places the icon casts a glitter sheen for influencer appeal.
Key West
The southernmost isle once called Cayo Hueso the island of bones— bones from a battle or Indian burial ground so there was always this legacy of lawlessness: pirates, wreckers, smugglers drugs, drinking, wilderness only reachable by boat the glistening white sand water jade green and aqua where ocean and Gulf met.
Pirates hunted for booty until the Navy arrived built a base, a busy port for Greek sponge divers for Cuban cigar makers treasure hunters seeking shipwrecks and sunken gold then the hotels and shops cottage homes and bars the Conch Republic born of Caribbean and Cuban influx and escapees from elsewhere creating a rough culture.
Henry Flagler linked the chain Palm Beach to the Keys the East Coast Railway and a hotel for visitors escaping winter storms Prohibition’s restrictions to where liquor flowed the Conchs smuggling in fat boatloads of booze after a deadly hurricane blew down the railroad the Overseas Highway the route to Key West the tropical oasis otherworldly, exotic a seaside sanctuary where art could flourish.
Hemingway in residence fishing, drinking, writing his most significant works he nicknamed his island the St. Tropez of the poor and Tennessee Williams bought a bungalow refuge brought gay friends to stay in the laissez faire outpost of the next literary star Thomas McGuane filming his rock ‘n’ roll novel Ninety-Two in the Shade his pal Jimmy Buffett on the soundtrack with no real music scene in the eclectic bars where everyone gathered, all types: politicians and criminals hippies and rednecks artists and bums and he sang for free drinks began to write story-songs on the laidback island life.
When “Margaritaville” hit the charts and the tourists flocked to the happy hours cheeseburgers in paradise cruise ships, mad crowds crime, trash and trinkets new rents and home prices nobody could afford so the writers left the millionaires, developers vacationers and wannabes an alcohol-fueled theme park the old island of bones the legacy of pirates seeking others’ treasure blind to it themselves.
Provincetown
A finger of land at the very tip a sandbar to mainland Mass a salty spit of gray isolation after the Mayflower anchored the women washed, their men stole Indian corn, skirmished before moving on to Plymouth and Portuguese whalers arrived harpooning thick pods to sell whale oil, bones, baleen, the cod catch plush so they sent for family the railroad down from Boston and the Cape Cod School of Art in the diverse community of immigrants, artists, outsiders.
Ensconced in a lunar dunescape in the old Life-Saving Station young Eugene O’Neill penned 19 short plays, 7 long, his first performed in a decrepit fish shed Bound East for Cardiff giving birth to modern American drama Anna Christie about the fishermen on the island: a grand place to be alone and undisturbed.
John Dos Passos down the street on Commercial faced the harbor and Norman Mailer’s house where he wrote the majority of his books in summers and spent his final years in: the freest town in America that was naturally spooky off-season a place for murderers and suicides with cold sea air with a bottomless chill.
Painters came for the crystal purity of the aquatic light, translucent fleets of squid, flocks of white gulls drafting faded scallop boats squawking terns chasing scarlet crabs red-faced men on creaky piers inhaling deep the briny scent the slap of foamy waves against the rocky shore.
Mary Oliver wrote for decades lush poems on the beauty of the island she called home the skittish skunk, rusty fox glistening sand and scrubby pines the endless surf, the unending call of the foghorn’s haunting note winters windswept and desolate and summer’s blast of blues sunset orange on the salt flats soft music in the misty dawn of inspiration and retreat.
Just like the embedded fragrance forever in my mind
Invisibly color the uncolored
And fade away the veiling blurred
Sparkling eyes having visions inside
Innocence offers ravishing rides
O’ The fragrance of generosity and humble
Regards, Respect, and dignified dale make it a bubble
A feeling of expressing is now double
Fragrance of all styles
Fragrance that touches the unheard miles
Grooming the dimness into eager lights
O’ the Dazzlingly fragranced like a hearth
Dispersal at the end of your breath.
Tajalla Qureshi, a radiant literary gem from Pakistan, stands as a beacon of creative brilliance. A wordsmith par excellence, she masterfully blends introspection, devotion, and creativity into compelling narratives that transport readers to enchanting dimensions. Her art lies in weaving words into wonders.
Additionally, a true polymath in the literary world, Tajalla’s portfolio spans poetry, creative columns, essays, and flash fiction. Each piece is a testament to her unyielding passion and finesse, intricately designed to evoke profound emotions, spark vivid imagination, and inspire the human spirit.
On the flip, celebrated as an international interviewer, columnist, and editor, Tajalla’s voice resonates far and wide, captivating audiences around the globe. Her unique perspective, lyrical style, and profound insights have cemented her place as a leading figure in contemporary literature. Furthermore, her work exemplifies the transformative power of words. With every sentence, she crafts an intricate tapestry of emotions, ideas, and lived experiences, inviting readers to embark on a journey of introspection, growth, and boundless wonder.
I. Dark Prologue Walking through the hillside, with a hiking bag slung over my shoulder and a pair of dusty shoes, I feel the cold seep into my bones, making me shiver. The dim night, the howling wind. I drag my heavy feet, continuing along the mountain’s flank. My consciousness gradually fades, blurring the boundary between reality and illusion.
II. Debris Narrative Piece Perhaps I have returned to a reality long buried in my memories. My classmates turned my back into an ant’s paradise. When their pranks crossed a certain point, it felt as if an engine roared in my mind. Powerless and angry, only cold and flame remained. Mocking laughter was like the stench of rotting corpses. Vultures might love it, but I detest it. Perhaps, the vultures are the classmates themselves. Perhaps they find joy in teasing one another. Perhaps, the classmates: one, two, three, more. Vultures: one, two, three, more. The Sacred Mountain reappears before my eyes.
III. Rebel Sonata Shadows flicker; the road is rugged; the heavy snow strikes my face, stretching endlessly before me. I dream, I pray, hoping there aren’t so many vultures attacking. I dream, I pray to become a black-clad warrior, to withstand all forms of malice. I dream, I pray to reach the mountaintop and find a tranquil realm—a place without discrimination, war, or divisions. Bellies, teeth, and fur. The vultures’ bodies come into focus before me. Their long claws shoot flames, swift as lightning, like Wolverine’s in the movie, longer than the epic of the Mahabharata. The earth splits, and the shrubwood is destroyed. Flames stab across my down coat, almost scorching my hiking bag with violent burns. The flames, like serpentine trails, dart everywhere, burning everything. Their wings whirl, bringing a huge chill wind, akin to this arctic climate. Fear is a tangible reality, yet the shadow of fear within me is more terrible than fear itself. The vultures are the enemies; fear is instant, always present in life. They attack, they revel, they laugh madly. I struggle madly to resist.
IV. Freedom Rhapsody Unsolved math problems sway like classmates’ proud heads, always presenting puzzles instead of solutions. Their voices echoed in the classroom, turning into atonal music, reminiscent of Igor Stravinsky. With blades drawn in my imagination, I cut away my incompetent self. Whatever the cost, I hope to achieve one thing. I aspire, I pray, I cannot fall on this treacherous journey. I aspire, I pray, to keep marching forward. My flashlight not only illuminates the path ahead, it also becomes a sword, slaying my weaknesses on the frigid trail to the Sacred Mountain.
V. Solo Piece When they prepared their mischief once more, I rose, statuesque, with a voice like rolling thunder, and said, “No.” My voice was loud: once, twice, thrice. It drove away the vultures before they could plunge me off the cliff. Yes, I can. “I believe I can say no to the malice in life. I can become my black-clad warrior, driving away bothersome vultures and all manner of monsters. I try, try, again, like Sisyphus confronting his boulder.”
Red Blood
Blood rain is dripping
from the battlefield in the Far East now.
Every second. Every ruin.
Every window. Every child.
The blood moon makes someone shiver
with a special prophecy.
Women varnish a bloody red with painted nails.
An American friend has a bloody floor.
He was scratched by a bloody-haired cat,
his arm bleeding red over the screen
of his phone, smeared with blood last week.
The sunset, “暮” in Chinese words,
turns at dusk into a giant, red blood egg.
The yolk spills into the mushroom soup,
becoming a red-blood delicacy
with a juicy, rare, blood-spattered steak.
A medical-themed drink— Blood Energy Potion,
popular in 2014. Back in 1957, A painting—
“Black in Deep Red” an abstract collision from.
Yukio Mishima’s self-martyrdom
was an avant-garde show.
A display of red, an art of blood.
The uncanny cup my teacher,
bought yesterday, seeping blood.
The Bombax ceiba blooms with a vital red.
The sudden snow last year in Portland
dropped red on my blood-covered poetry,
a memory of a deceased friend.
The friend’s name is pronounced like blood.
He was soaked in a bloody past.
A bleeding rose now grows before my eyes.
The red won’t let me forget.
It will flow into him at the grave,
whispering longing to him.
But Life Goes On
No one can touch my heart
It is as cold as the Arctic Frost
Friendship in the tech age
is Higanbana of flowers
Unreachable –
Unattainable –
My desire is lost
I stand on the Tower Bridge
amidst the dense fog
Faded memories drift through
not this foggy day
The vivid past has faded, somehow
And the party on the lawn
the dance during the party
the laughter of peals
echoed from yesterday
That’s yours, theirs and
is a blurred world
Where everyone is near
As I reach out the misty rain
like pine needles
it pierces my skin into London’s fogs
I can touch the raindrops
not grasp the joyous past
nor the distant future
within the fleeting mist
I want to ask
Will Men be one?
Will wars be none?
Will all races come together
And exist as one?
As the fog lifts
I am still here
Nothingness
Nothingness is silent, yet contains all sounds, empty, yet empty of nothing.
Nothingness is water— water without shape.
Pour it into an indigo cup, and the water takes the shape of the cup— that is emptiness, like someone truly seeing reality.
But nothingness is something that reaches emptily toward itself.
Yucheng Tao, from China, is studying songwriting at the MI College of Contemporary Music in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in multiple literary venues, including three Wingless Dreamer’s Open Theme contest selections. NonBinary Review later reprinted his poem” Blue Horse” alongside an author interview. Synchronized Chaos featured three of his poems, while his work also appeared in Ink Nest, The Arcanist, Moonstone Art Center, Poetry Potion, and Literary Yard, Spillwords.
